


Let Me Show You Something

by moonflowers



Series: Self-Indulgent AUs [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Friendship, M/M, Superpowers, idk what else to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas had never considered the possibility that there may be others like him. Or rather, he had, but not with serious conviction so much as half wild hope. But he’d been wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Show You Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irrationalgame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/gifts).



> Wrote this back in August for irrationalgame's birthday :) She requested a superpowers AU.  
> Wanted to post it here as well as Tumblr because I find it easier to keep track of.

To say Thomas Barrow had always known he was different would be a lie. He had been a quiet child, proud and a little selfish, but no more so than hundreds of others. As a rule, he kept mostly to himself. By the age of fourteen, he had begun to realise it was not the pretty girls that caught his attention, but rather the boys. Though this was not something that made him wholly unique either, if the looks one of the other lads on his street gave him meant what he suspected. It was a year or so later again before he realised he was in fact rather special. His father’s hands were becoming stiff and arthritic, meaning he couldn’t find as much work as he used to, and it was clear to Thomas he would have to make his own way sooner or later.  
Through mainly good luck, he had managed to secure a position as a hall boy in a large house on the outskirts of town, for a very well-to-do family. His mother was proud of him. So much so, that on his last evening at home, she had invited a few friends and neighbours over for tea. Thomas wasn’t sure why she’d bothered – he didn’t much care for most of them, and assumed the feeling was mutual. There was one exception to this rule however, and his name was Charlie Foster. 

He was a year or two Thomas’ senior, and the very same lad who used to eye him up as he walked past his front gate. And the look he was giving Thomas at that moment across the table, as their mothers poured tea and nattered about God knows what, was very interesting indeed. Engrossed in their own trivial chat across the crowded room, no one noticed when Thomas and Charlie snuck out to the dingy back garden of the Barrow’s house. Garden was a bit of an overstatement – it was a tiny patch of ground taken up mostly by a wobbly shed, the privy, and a pot of half dead geraniums. But that was irrelevant. Far more important was the fact that Charlie had Thomas pushed up against the wall in the shadows, out of sight of the windows, with his hand down Thomas’ trousers. It was… well, quite frankly it was bloody marvellous. Though there was a strange sort of rushing in his head, getting louder and more frantic that he wasn’t sure was entirely pleasant, or indeed normal. But he was fast losing himself in the fumbling strokes of the other boy’s hand, and was on the brink of crisis when he happened to look over his shoulder, to see the dustbin hovering a few inches above the ground. He came with a whine, Charlie’s hand over his mouth, and the bin clattered back to the ground. The pressure in his head and his body ceased, and he slumped against the bricks. Thomas just about managed to convince the other boy the noise had been a cat, but really he knew better. It had been him, he’d felt it.  
He could move things without touching them. 

*

In the months following, Thomas used any moment he had spare from his work to practice at his newfound talent. Chances did not come as often as he’d have liked, and he nearly landed himself in trouble a time or two when things got out of hand. One time he’d let his temper get the better of him in the kitchens, and a pan had flown right off the table and at the kitchen maid who’d been teasing him. Luckily she’d left the room before it could hit its target. And later on, after he’d been made footman, he’d nearly fainted during dinner service, he’d been trying so hard to lift the chair his mistress was sitting on. Had it worked, he may have had a troublesome situation on his hands, but then he’d never much cared for the old cow anyway. But he’d had a lark with it as well, of course, despite the risks. Who wouldn’t? 

By the time he’d left the drab townhouse, and the city altogether, for the position of footman at Downton Abbey, he was growing confident in his ability. He understood it better; it was a part of him now, not just something extra tacked on. For example, he’d learnt that he could only move objects that he would have the strength to physically – a book, say, would be next to no effort, but the great dining table upstairs would be impossible. He could also summon his ability to use at will rather than as a side effect of emotion, a far cry from when he’d first started and the occurrences were sporadic and unpredictable. But there were still instances that caused alarm when his emotions were running high, and he couldn’t control what he lifted and where he moved it. He’d found the best way to avoid a disaster was simply to leave the room; part of the reason he’d taken up smoking was to have an excuse to get outside any away from others if he needed to. 

His control improved with further practice, though the war set him back a fair bit. The constant strain of it all meant he’d sometimes woken to find small rocks, rounds of ammunition, or his cigarettes floating above him, having lifted them unconsciously as he slept. But he suspected his ability had saved his life once or twice, heightened fear and panic deflecting minor projectiles without him even noticing. But that by no means made it any easier to bear, nor the entire thing any less ridiculous, and he soon reached the end of his tether.  
Once the war was over, and things settled again back at Downton, Thomas was rather pleased with himself and how far he’d come. It was a sort of talisman he carried with him; whenever things looked particularly bleak, he could remind himself of his fantastic ability, take solace in his gift. He was not like the rest of them, and that was no bad thing. For a while, it was enough.

*

Thomas had never considered the possibility that there may be others like him. Or rather, he had, but not with serious conviction so much as half wild hope. But he’d been wrong. 

He had just returned to Downton from a visit to London with his Lordship, tired and disgruntled, when Molesley stopped him in the hallway, nosing about the outcome of the trip. Thomas told him to mind his own, and asked if anything he should know about had taken place while he was away. With apparent pleasure at being the one to impart the news, Molesley informed him of the arrival of the new footman.  
Hmm. He’d forgotten about that. Well, he was too knackered to deal with it now; it could keep until the morning. He made his way along the men’s corridor, suitcase in hand. Usually he might have done so with his mind, but he was so damn tired he feared his concentration would slip and make more trouble than it was worth. Part way down the corridor, he noticed that the door of the room he supposed belonged to the new footman was ajar. It couldn’t hurt to briefly assess what he’d have to deal with come morning, could it? If he was to have another Alfred on his hands, he’d better know sooner rather than later.

Resigning himself to a hopefully brief introduction to yet another simpleton he’d be living and working with, Thomas peered through the gap of the open door. Inside, he saw Mr Molesley, standing in front of the mirror. But… that couldn’t be right, Thomas had been talking to him downstairs a moment ago. And what would he be doing in the new footman’s room? Thomas blinked, and Molesley was replaced by Anna, looking far more stern than usual. He blinked again and Anna became Mr Carson, who then transformed into Mrs Patmore, apron and all. Was he dreaming? Had he in fact fallen asleep on the train and was now having some sort of strange nightmare? But, as quickly as it had come on, his panic ebbed as he took a guess at what exactly was going on. _Someone like me._

“Hello,” he stepped smartly into the bedroom, closing the door behind him and hoping to hell he could keep the growing enthusiasm from showing on his face. Lord knows he’d had enough practice.

The form of Mrs Patmore flinched and span around, wide-eyed, and suddenly it was Jimmy Kent, the bloke who’d introduced himself as a prospective footman some days previous. Well then. At least they’d hired the handsome one. 

“G-good evening, Mr Barrow” he stammered, white as a sheet and a smile fixed hastily in place. Pleasingly, it seemed he’d remembered Thomas’ name. “That – that was just a little magic trick of mine. Me dad used to – “ 

“Now now, there’s no need for all that. I know what I saw,” said Thomas, more smoothly than he felt. “What a lovely trick it was though, Mr Kent. Please do show me again.”

The colour rose instantly in Jimmy’s face again, grin faltering as he attempted to turn Thomas off the scent. Silly boy. “Oh, now? I – I’m afraid I really couldn’t – “ 

“Enough,” Thomas said, very much enjoying the way the man’s attention was fixed solely on him; pretty eyes watching him in apprehension. “Let me show you something.” 

Under normal circumstances (though very little could be considered ‘normal’ when it came to Thomas’ gift) he never would have revealed his own abilities so quickly and without solid proof of his suspicions about Jimmy Kent. But he was overcome – a little thrilled at having met someone else with so exquisite a gift, and a little muddled in the presence of his haughty prettiness. He was suddenly keen to impress him. Thomas looked to the bed, to the open and half unpacked suitcase resting on the sheets. He lifted it a foot or two into the air, shirt hanging limp over the edge. It took a great deal more concentration than usual though. Fuck, he was tired. Lowering it back down to the bed, Thomas looked to gauge Jimmy’s reaction. Well, he certainly looked surprised, and perhaps a little impressed, but that was only half the battle.

“So, are you going to show me yours, or not?”

Jimmy’s half smile turned into a scowl as he wordlessly transformed into a perfect copy of Thomas himself, glare still firmly in place. Thomas laughed, nothing short of incredulous, as Jimmy quickly switched back to his own shape. What a magnificent creature.

“Well well, aren’t you a clever one,” he began, as another question popped up among the multitude of queries buzzing about his head, “though, if I may ask, what exactly is the purpose in replicating everyone downstairs?”

Jimmy flushed a dull red. Since Thomas ordinarily viewed blushing as a sign of weakness, particularly in himself, it was surprising how attractive he found it on the other man. “Might come in handy,” Jimmy said gruffly, defensive, “you can’t honestly tell me you haven’t used your gift to help you along as far as work’s concerned?” 

“Course I have, what do you take me for?”

Jimmy grumbled something incomprehensible and leaned back against his chest of drawers. Each regarded the other in silence and stillness, two tense cats eyeing each other up to see if they posed a threat. It was a sort of impasse – neither quite knew where they could go from here. It was the sort of information Thomas would usually bear in mind for future leverage, but Jimmy had the exact same accusation to hold against him. Not that anyone would ever believe either of them. Despite this, Thomas felt somewhat liberated. He’d never told anyone before. He had nearly told O’Brien once, before he’d come to his senses and decided she couldn’t be trusted. With some things maybe, but not this.

“So, what do you really look like then?” he may have been wrong, but Thomas had a hunch Jimmy’s appearance wasn’t entirely his own. Heck, he probably would’ve done the same if he could, and smoothed over a few rough patches – appearances were important in their line of work.

“Well,” Jimmy stiffened, looking decidedly uncomfortable, “like this, mostly. Just a bit more dull around the edges.”

“Will you show me?” It was a long shot but the words left his mouth before he’d thought about it.

“Not just yet.”

Well, that wasn’t an outright no. “I’d best get to bed,” he said, keen to find out more about Jimmy but aware pushing would most likely get him nowhere fast. He’d have been the same. “I’m bloody knackered. And you’ll have a day of it tomorrow, no doubt about that.”

Jimmy smiled, slightly more relaxed now he realised Thomas was going to leave him be for a bit. “Alright. Goodnight, Mr Barrow. And… can I come to you if there’s anything I need to know? About work, I mean.”

“Certainly.” He’d be more than bloody happy to give Jimmy Kent a hand where it was needed, “goodnight.”

Thomas finally got to his bed, for which he was thankful. His head hurt and his hand ached, and travel always tired him at the best of times. But then there was Jimmy. Despite their shaky start, Thomas suspected he may well have found a friend, or something of the sort, in Jimmy Kent. And if not… well, things were certainly about to get much more entertaining.

**Author's Note:**

> I've also decided that Jimmy's grip on his power gets a bit lax when he's in bed with someone. Just something to think about.


End file.
